Myrren's Gift by Fiona McIntosh Page A

flesh burned freely now, the oil clinging to her body and helping the flames do their work. Her face was charred, her teeth bared in a grimace of agony but still her eyes held his in a final embrace of death.
    Wyl heard her words again in his mind. Fear not my gift .
    Now Myrren did finally vent her anger and despair. At last Lymbert heard her voice and he reveled in her agony.
    And at the sound of her final, chilling scream, Wyl Thirsk, General of the Legion, felt a strange sensation overcome him. It was neither painful nor pleasant but it was keen and pressing. It devoured him. Then it changed into a sharp, splintering agony and Wyl felt as though he was losing his breath—his ability to breathe, in fact. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth against it, unaware of anyone around him, hearing only the piercing sound of her scream. When her voice ended abruptly Wyl lost his wits, collapsing into an all-encompassing darkness. A few people watched him fall to the ground, including Lymbert.
    “Some General,” he commented, eager to get a final and powerful thorn driven into Wyl’s image.
    “Imagine him in battle.”
    A butcher nearby agreed. “No stomach for death, that one. He should come and work in the slaughterhouse with me. We’ll toughen him up.”
    Gueryn and Alyd pulled Wyl’s limp body away from the grim scene and the smoke. A shocked Gueryn ordered Alyd to find water immediately. His stunned companion wasted not a second.
    “Wyl, my boy. Wyl! Come on now, lad.” The older soldier pulled back Wyl’s lids and was mortified to see the pupils dilated so large that there was no color in his eyes at all.
    Gueryn looked up anxiously for Alyd. His glance landed on a painfully thin boy, scrawny and grubby.
    The smell alone emanating from him was powerful enough to make the hardiest person gasp but in his outstretched hand was a bladder of water.
    “It’s fresh, sir,” the boy said. “And clean. I fetched it just an hour ago from the well.” Gueryn cast aside his doubts and took the water. He threw some of it over Wyl’s face and hair before trying to pry open his mouth and get some of it into Wyl’s throat.
    “He will be all right, won’t he, sir?” the boy asked, his face a mask of worry.
    The soldier did not answer, his attention distracted by the muffled groan of Wyl coming back to consciousness.
    “Ah, lad, you scared me.”
    Wyl’s eyelids fluttered open and Gueryn, horrified by what he saw, sat down hard on the ground in a new wave of shock.
    Wyl shook his head to clear the blur. “What?”
    “Look at me, boy,” Gueryn said, his voice filled with dread.
    Alas, the feverish gaze before him was still burning brightly from a pair of eyes that were bewitching indeed—one a penetrating gray, the other an arresting green, with flecks of warm brown.
    Wyl closed his ill-matched eyes as Alyd hurried to his side, pushing away the small boy whose water had helped revive his friend.
    “Help me get him out of here,” Gueryn ordered, too shaken by what he had witnessed to give further explanation.

Chapter 5
    Alyd Donal could not keep the smile from his face. It had been his companion since sixteen-year-old Ylena Thirsk had accepted his proposal of marriage. He had been patient; six years of absence from his beloved family in Felrawthy had been made less painful partly because of his fiercely loyal friendship with Wyl Thirsk but mainly because there was Ylena to love. There had never been anyone else for him since the day his red-headed companion had introduced him to his exquisite sister. The strong urge Alyd felt to protect this beautiful creature had surprised him, not that he was such a champion. Ylena had her seemingly fearless brother and the ultimate protection of a powerful King; she had no need of his sword and yet even as a bashful twelve-year-old, confirming the promise of the handsome woman she would become, Ylena had sought out his company. It seemed, even at that age, there was no one else for